Firefly
by Golden Raindrops
Summary: A collection of oneshots by an author experimenting with romance, each centered around a different pairing: Thuke, Perlia, Annico, maybe even Percabeth...On hiatus for unknown length of time.
1. Firefly

**A/N: Well, people. This is going to be a bunch of oneshots centered around different pairings *gasp*. Note, I am not a romantic person, so I'm just making this up out of my wild imagination. This may not be the romantic-ness you are looking for. Oh, and not EVERY SINGLE ONESHOT is going to have a kissing scene. No. Sorry. **

** This *gestures* is my (probably) failurely attempt at Thuke. Also note, however, that it is an attempt. I can't write romance worth anything, however, I am attempting. So it would really help if you could please, please, please...dare I say it? Review? As in, like, CC? Or flame if you think it's bad. Or compliment if you are an incredibly nice and forgiving person, but I'd prefer CC. Pleeeeease?**

**Now that I'm done making excuses...**

Firefly

She's sitting next to him on the cold, damp ground. The fire's burning low, embers slowly dying. The smell of fresh rain and rotting wood is in the air. And the warm, gentle heat…is it from the fire…or from him?

She doesn't know. Maybe both, but who cares? She isn't about to complain. Her eyelids are heavy, oh so heavy. They're drooping down and she makes an effort to keep from dozing off. For the first time in weeks she's warm and comfortable and not hungry.

The old mason jar sits between them, the fireflies tiny sparks of light inside. It's tipping slightly towards the flames. She reaches out quickly and grabs it. She doesn't want it to fall.

From nowhere, a gust of chill wind hits, and she shivers. The jar of fireflies is warm in her thin hands, but the rest of her body is cold yet again.

Of course. She sighs. She never was known for her spectacular luck.

She fidgets, tucks her legs up to her chest, wraps her arms around herself, tries to find a position that blocks out the wind. It doesn't work. The gusts penetrate her thin, worn clothing and wrap themselves around her spine, chilling her to the bone.

Suddenly, the cold fades away and the wind isn't hitting her with such force. Something warm and soft falls across her shoulders, wraps around her slight frame. She looks down, startled.

His hands are fastening the buttons of his jacket which is now wrapped around her like a thick black cloak. Her blue eyes spark with electricity. Her hands fly to the buttons and unbutton them as quickly as he tries to button them back up.

She wins. She throws off the hood, pulls off the jacket, and gazes up at him with hard eyes. She's holding the jacket at an arm's length.

"What do you think you're doing?" she asks with a note of annoyance in her voice.

"What do you think _you're _doing?" he retorts.

"Taking off _your _jacket. What about you?"

"_Giving _you my jacket!" he cries. He flings his hands up in exasperation. "What is it _with _you, Thalia? What is your _problem_? It's not some kind of a felony for me to- for me to _help _you!"

He hurls a stick into the fire for emphasis and turns away. She gazes at his back, her eyes blank. Slowly, her hand comes up and drops the jacket in his lap. Then she turns away as well.

"Wear it."

She whips around.

"I said to wear it." His eyes are as empty as hers.

"It's yours. You wear it."

"Thalia, if you don't put it on, I swear I will throw it into the fire and neither of us will wear it. Will that make you happy? Because if that's what it it's going to take, then…"

She doesn't want to wear it. She doesn't want to touch it, because that means she's giving in. And she _never ever _gives in. Unless it concerns Luke and Annabeth's safety. And it's almost winter and then Luke won't have a jacket…

All right, she decides. She'll put it on. But not for her. _Only _for Luke and Annabeth. She reaches over and gingerly removes the jacket, holding it like it's a poisonous snake. She slips it on, deliberately leaves the hood down and the front unbuttoned and picks up the fallen jar of fireflies.

The fire is almost out. The only light is a faint red glow. She picks up a long branch with a slightly charred tip and pokes at the fire, stirring up the embers and coals until they glow brightly and bits of flame pop up. New twigs and branches and scraps of an old newspaper go in until everything in that small circle is enveloped in flame and she's brought the fire back to life.

Fireflies are swarming at the walls of the little glass jar. They are twinkling frantically: on-off, on-off, as if their lights will get them out of the jar. So innocent with so much hope…and she wonders if maybe in a way she is like that too; full of futile hope and dreams.

Yes, in a way, she's just like the fireflies in the jar. Somewhere far above, there is someone, or maybe many people watching her. Maybe they are as amused with her as she is with the fireflies.

Maybe…

Maybe…

Maybe…

There are so many 'maybes' and she doesn't know what to think. So her mind goes back to the fireflies in the jar. She wonders if she should let them go free. But she wants to look at them, to have them for a strnge, wordless kind of company for just a little longer.

"Wonder if all those little twinkles and blinks mean something. They look kind of like Morse Code, y'know?"

She jumps. She hadn't expected him to speak to her for a while, until the next morning at least. Her head turns slowly.

"They could be."

He nods slightly, as if satisfied with her answer. Then he reaches out his hands tentatively.

"Can I see for a minute?"

She hands him the jar. He holds it in his scarred hands, looks at the flashes of light intently. His fingers dance on the lid. It seems like he's counting something.

After a pause, he looks up with a half-smile and points to one of the flashes. "Hey, Thalia, this one's spelling out your name in Morse Code."

"Really?"

She knows that he's making it up, but she indulges him and leans in close, her eyes following his finger until they land on the little firefly.

"Yeah," he replies. "See, he already did T-H-A…" His eyes narrow and he starts to count again. "Oh, he did an 'M'. It's an 'L', little guy, not an 'M'."

The firefly seems to object to being called a little guy. Its light flashes violently, thrice, four times, five.

He stands up, jar in hand. "We should let them go." And then, with a beckoning gesture: "Coming?"

They walk out into the night, but still close enough that they can see the reassuring glow of the fire. A tall oak is where they decide to stop. He hands her the jar wordlessly and she twists off the rusted lid.

The fireflies flutter into the fresh air and dance out into the darkness. She can still see their flashes…and now they're too far away to make out. She turns to go with the jar tucked under her arm.

He calls out to her. "Wait, Thalia!"

She spins around, and walking backward, she replies. "What?"

And then something happens. Her left foot goes back and hits something hard, something that wasn't there before. Her right foot follows instinctively as she tries to catch herself; it too hits on the same object, and then she's falling…falling…falling backwards towards the large slab of rock.

Just before she hits the ground, the motion stops. He pulls her up to a standing position without letting go, and she doesn't really want him to. But they're awkwardly close to each other and that she can't ignore. They're nose to nose; she can feel his breath on her cheek. She's about to say something, something she would probably regret later, but he speaks first.

"Listen, Thalia, I just- well, y'know, we're half-bloods, we're in mortal danger every other second, any moment one of us could die…and I thought I should just say this to you while I have the chance and-"

She knows what he's going to say. She _knows_. But she doesn't know what to do. So she just closes her eyes and tries to think of a decent response. She wants so much to reply with the phrase she knows he would give anything to hear, that she wants to hear herself from him. Even a simple "What is it, Luke?" would do. But she's afraid. So afraid. It's not natural for her, something she's never felt before. So she chokes.

And the words don't come out of her mouth. Not those words, anyway. Instead, she says something so incredibly idiotic, random, and_ stupid_, that her face immediately flushes.

"Where's Annabeth?"

He's caught off guard. "What do you mean? She's back sleeping…"

Her face turns an even brighter shade of red. She hopes he can't tell in the darkness. "Oh, right."

Now he's curious. "Why?"

"Um…well...if she saw us like…this, she might get the- the wrong idea or something…"

She cringes as the final words float off her tongue. She wants him to let go so she can hit her head on that slab of rock for the next five minutes. The effect on him is immediate; he looks like a balloon that had been stuck with a pin, deflated.

His face turns colors; pink, red, and an even brighter red, but he manages to regain his composure. "Oh…yeah. That would be…" He looks up at the sky, searching for the words in the stars. "Bad. That would be bad," he finishes.

"Yeah…"

They pull away from each other and walk back to the camp, together and alone at the same time. And she's managed to delay that fearful moment for now, but there's no doubt, she knows, that it's going to come back and hit in the head again sooner or later.

But until that happens, she'll always wonder what would have happened if she just would have let him finish his sentence, utter those three dreaded yet anticipated words:

_I love you._

**A/N: Like I said at the top, review? An author NEEDS reviews! Oh, and please suggest pairings as well. I've got a list, but I'd love some more unconventional ones that you've thought up. However, you will be running the risk of me butchering them...so if you wanna help the developing author, go ahead at your own risk.**


	2. Out of the Desert

**Hi, again! To all reviewers, I'm glad you enjoyed my first oneshot and the CC was appreciated, those that gave it. So now I post the next one. Tell me what you think!**

Out of the Desert

a **oneshot **of _**Chrisse**_

**...**

The Arizona sun is hot as ever on Clarisse La Rue's bare shoulders. She stands outside, motionless, the hot dry wind tousling her brown hair but providing no relief from the heat. It must be one hundred and ten, one hundred and twenty degrees at least but the daughter of Ares pushes herself to bear it for a moment or two longer before she retreats to the air-conditioned haven of her mother's house.

She lifts a hand to her forehead to block out the sunlight, scans the horizon for something, anything, new approaching. In the distance, sunlight glints off Phoenix's glass-walled buildings. But the horizon remains as empty as ever.

Phoenix _has _to be the most utterly and hopelessly boring place she's ever seen. Of course, that might have to do with the fact that she's never actually been into the heart of the city; she's just wandered around the outskirts and left as quickly as she had come. Or maybe that she never wholeheartedly wanted to come to Phoenix in the first place.

But really, what else can this city hold that would please a daughter of Ares. The numerous boutiques aren't exactly doing the trick. Does this place have anything; a gym, a pool, a soccer field?

Not anywhere that she can see. Unless they've got one tucked up inside some skyscraper. Anyway, if there's anything of interest to her in this city, it's far too hot to go searching. She's here for her mother and that's it. And then she's heading straight back to camp.

Clarisse turns her back on the stifling heat and walks down the narrow flagstone path back to her mother's house. Her sandals clap against the hot stones, the sound and the heat filling her ears, her thoughts.

But wait! What is this sound? As if her footsteps are echoing or something…and then she has it and she stops. But the sound continues. Puzzling. She had expected the other person to stop when she did.

Who can this be? A monster, maybe? Slowly, she turns; hand on the hilt of the sword that is ever present and ever ready at her side.

And it isn't a monster that is there in front of her. It isn't a monster that is pacing in tight rows like a hunted animal. It is not a monster that suddenly dashes off into a random direction, only to be drift back as if being pulled by an imaginary force.

No, it is definitely not a monster. When he starts to speak and his voice calls back memories from the back of her mind, she knows she's definitely not hallucinating. It's not caused by the heat, or the Mist, or any supernatural force. She doesn't register the words, but there's no doubt. It's _him_.

There, in front of her, is the all too familiar and painfully real from of Chris Rodriguez that has just collapsed to the ground in a confused heap. And he's wounded.

Her first instinct is to run forwards to help him, before anything else, and she acts on it, calling his name wildly. She grabs him by the shoulders and pulls him to a sitting position.

What's confusing is that he's still conscious. He hasn't fainted, just collapsed for no apparent reason. It doesn't appear that he's hurt severely, only the good-sized gash on his right forearm.

_And what is he doing here?_

She tilts his chin upwards so he is forced to look up.

"Chris? Chris, can you hear me?"

But he's lost to the world, mumbling incoherently about…what is he _saying_? String? What about it?

"I'm Clarisse. Do you remember? Chris?"

"I'll kill you, Laurel!"

Her heart sinks. Her voice is on the verge of trembling now, and she can't allow her self to show weakness. So she continues to call to him. She tries to break him from what ever world he's in, shakes him, but he doesn't respond.

So she doesn't question it any further, just throws him over her shoulder with a quick, brusque movement and runs toward the house as fast as she can.

**...**

"Mom!"

Her feet pound down the hallway and into the living room, where she lowers her passenger to a sofa.

"Mom!"

She grimaces. She has never been one to ask for help, but in this situation, her mother may be vital. Kathryn La Rue, with her multiple degrees in psychology, may be the only person who can figure out Chris's mental state right now. Besides, she can't very well hide Chris off somewhere in the house without her mother finding out. And then he would probably in such a state that he would be off to the looney bin in two seconds flat.

"Clarisse? Is everything all right?"

"No!"

Feet come thundering down the stairs and a moment later, Ms. La Rue appears in the doorway.

"Cla…" Her eyes follow Clarisse's gaze to the sofa. "Oh. This is…"

"Chris," she says shortly. Her voice catches at the end, and she swallows hard.

"Oh." By now her mother is used to her daughter's demigod life. This is no surprise to her.

"What's _wrong _with him?"

Then, she's off, up the stairs, running down the hall before she can hear her mother's answer. And in the safety of her room, she allows a single tear to fall.

**...**

She doesn't go back downstairs until the next afternoon. She feels torn, completely, irreparably torn. She wants so much to go down, to see him, to caress his face and make the cloud disappear from his mind with one touch of her hand.

But she can't. Because on the other side, this is the same Chris who she'd thought would always be with her. The same Chris that was her best friend, and then a little more than her best friend.

The same Chris that left her to join the Titan army without an explanation or goodbye.

So she sits in the straight backed chair by the window for a full day, her arms clenched on the armrests, her thoughts in a tornado.

Chris.

Chris.

Best friend.

Chris.

Traitor.

Chris.

He's something else to her too, or he _was _something else to her, once upon a time. But she doesn't dare to think it. Because then he might be gone forever, totally unreachable.

"Clarisse!"

Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise. She is about to jump up, only to find that she…can't. Her limbs are practically glued to the chair with stiffness, and her eyelids are heavy. It takes several moments for her to work her way out of the chair, but as soon as she's free, she darts downstairs like a rocket.

Maybe he's all right now. Maybe her mother has discovered a miracle cure. Or maybe…

Or maybe Chris is no better than he had been before and Chiron is sitting in wheelchair form in the living room. Her shoulders slump. She should have known. Things are never so easy.

"Hello, Clarisse."

She nods her head slightly and turns back to go upstairs.

"We'd like you to stay, please."

She sinks into a chair.

The old centaur's face is sympathetic, but he doesn't sugarcoat. Chris has been driven insane. They've tried to question him, see why he was out here in Arizona. They haven't got much information, only a few things. He will have to go back to camp for treatment. She can come if she wants.

He might get better. He might not.

**...**

He won't sleep in the Big House. He protests and kicks and fights, so they take him down to the basement, where there are a few pallets on the floor in case of emergency. He sinks down onto the cool cloth without a fuss, so here he stays.

And she's always with him, going up only when absolutely necessary. It saddens her, but sadness is better than the unknown. He seems to be getting better.

Sometimes, he even remembers her name.

"You. Clarisse," he'll say.

"Me, Clarisse. You, Chris," she'll reply sadly. She wants to add more, but the words choke in her throat.

But then Chiron forces her back to her schedule. And the next time she has a moment to visit him, his mind is in chaos yet again. And again. And again, it happens. She's so close to having her Chris back that she can forgive everything he's ever done to her. But then the insanity that possesses his body will pull him under for another round of torture, and she'll lose hope.

Again.

Chris's weekly recovery and remission seems to become part of her schedule as well. Then one week, the recovery doesn't come.

**...**

"Chris! Chris, stay here!"

He's in the infirmary now, thrashing around on his cot, making attempts to get up but falling back. It's almost too much; she thinks, in a moment of despair, that if he doesn't get better then she will go mad too.

Most disturbing of all is that when she calls for him to stay, she doesn't only mean to stay in bed. She's calling for him to stay with her; to stay alive.

They all know it; if he doesn't improve soon, there'll be no saving him. Although they haven't told her, it's obvious enough. So she knows. And right now he's on the verge. All she can do is hope. And plead. And pray.

What is this? Have her prayers, for the first time, been answered? The sharp, slightly sour smell of wine catches her attention as a familiar figure enters the infirmary. Has he really agreed?

Yes, the scowl on his face is unmistakable. She's been here long enough to know this as his classic I'm-only-doing-this-out-of-the-goodness-of-my-heart scowl. But goodness of the heart or not, any way will work for her. So long as Chris will be okay.

The god of wine rolls his eyes and snaps his fingers. "No longer insane. All memories after he left for the Titans gone. Be grateful, _Chrissy_."

She stares after him; disbelief that the god of wine had just walked in, saved Chris's life, and walked out without another word apparent on her face. But a light tap on the shoulder pulls her away.

"Clarisse?"

She can't speak. Her body moves without instruction from her stunned brain and she leaps towards him, tackling him in a hug. They fall in slow motion towards the bed.

And yes, after long last, for the very first time, they kiss.

**What did you think? Really, I need you to tell me your opinions, because I have virtually no experience with romance, fanfiction or otherwise. If it's too cheesy, someone's OOC, whatever, please tell me. In other words:**

**REVIEW!**

**Please?**

**See you next time, with:**

**Black; a oneshot of Thalico**


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